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she says. “You’re here because you’re dad’s making you work?”
    I shrug instead of answering.
    She laughs as if this pleases her. “Maybe we’ll grow on you, sourpuss. Come on. I’ll give you the tour,” she says.
    â€¢ • •
    Stella takes me from her office into a room with three exits. “Lockers are right there,” she says, gesturing, and then she points at a basket of locks. “Use one of those to put away any valuables you bring.” A tiny ripple of fear sticks in my gut. Locks mean people steal. What else do they do?
    Signs are posted on a billboard over the basket. Thanks for volunteering.
    Women’s Outreach Program, Wednesday Nights at 7 p.m. in the Arts and Crafts Room.
    Stella shows me where to sign in and out and points to the kitchen, which goes off in the direction ahead. “We’ll go there last. That’s where you’ll be working.”
    I follow her slowly, my shoulders scrunched up tight, trying not to touch anything or breathe too deeply because of the musty smell. She leads me down another narrow hallway. “Volunteers sort donations over there,” she says. I see piles of T-shirts and plastic containers full of socks.
    â€œOur guests can get clothes and necessities here once a week. We serve lunch and dinner every day of the week, and we offer overnight shelter in emergency situations.”
    We walk past bins of deodorant and soap and a room filled with racks of boots and jackets. They’re out of style. “They pay for this stuff?” I ask, my eyes wide.
    â€œNo.” She turns to me. “It’s a shelter, hon. It’s free. They’re donations. You’ll learn. Anyway, serving in the dining room is where we need your help, so don’t worry too much right now.”
    At the back of the building there’s a loading dock. “This was a warehouse?” I ask.
    Stella nods, but my gaze goes to someone walking toward us, pushing a cart. The cart is loaded up with potted plants. I perk up as I recognize them. The dock door opens, and the cart is pushed outside into the sunny midmorning air.
    â€œWhat are they doing with those plants?” I ask.
    Stella points to a building outside. “That’s our greenhouse over there. Donated by a longtime patron. Wilf MacDonald. He paid for the greenhouse in his wife’s name. She volunteered here for years, but she passed on a while ago. He’s with us now.”
    â€œThere’s a greenhouse?”
    â€œYou like plants?” Stella asks, staring at me, her hands on her hips. Noticing too many things.
    I shrug again.
    â€œYou can check the place out on your own after the lunch service if you like. Wilf will be around somewhere. He locks the place up. You’ll need to talk to him if you want to help out.”
    â€œThey’re just plants,” I say and bite my lip.
    Stella starts walking again, explaining a couple of other rooms and what happens in them, and then we find ourselves back on the main floor, in the volunteer center.
    â€œOkay,” she says, leading me through the kitchen to the dining room. “I’ll introduce you to Sunny. She’s in charge of the servers. Where’s Sunny?” Stella asks a white-haired man when we walk into the dining room. He’s got a stack of place mats draped over an arm. “Wilf, this is Jess. She’s a new server. She’s going to be here all summer.”
    â€œLucky you,” he says. “Sunny’s in the supply room. A huge shipment of plastic cutlery came in, and she’s not happy about it.” He glances at me. “We have our own cutlery, and Sunny hates environmental irresponsibility. Here.” He divides a stack of place mats and hands half to me. “Put these out on the tables. Four per table.”
    I glance down at the stack in my hands. The place mats look homemade. Stamped with a company logo. Stade Golf Course Valentine